Wounded

Wounded

It’s strange I guess, but I want to remember this wound.

Let time not heal all.

I gouge it deep with my own finger, feeling the wet flesh,

My raw nerves shoot and sting,

I will pick at the scab, when it scabs, scratch like mad,

Getting bits of it under my nails.

I will press on the scar, when it scars, making it ache,

And pull on the web of my insides.

This wound must serve me. To feel alive? To feel mortal?

I just want to remember this wound.